quarta-feira, agosto 06, 2008

Verão: Iogurte lírico 1

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunder storms,Holds up each summer day and shakesIt out suspiciously, lest swarmsOf grape-dark clouds are lurking there;But when the August weather breaks And rains begin, and brittle frostSharpens the bird-abandoned air,Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born And summer-loving, none the less Am easier when the leaves are gone Too often summer days appear Emblems of perfect happiness I can't confront:I must await A time less bold, less rich, less clear: An autumn more appropriate.